Chameleon Phone
by bellefantastique
Summary: "He hates the Doctor, he hates humans, he hates the Timelords even in death , and he hates mess and disorder unless he is the one causing it." The Master tries to clean the TARDIS. Just a silly, fluffy fic with a spot of Doc/Master/Donna friendship.


A/N: This is stupid. Take it for what it is. Stupid. xD

It's typical, he thinks, that the Doctor's TARDIS is a complete and utter tip.

Sometimes he wishes that his blasted ex-friend hadn't gone burrowing around in his mind removing those continuous drums because then, at least, he may be distracted from the godforsaken mess that the other Timelord left his TARDIS in.

So here he is. Cleaning. There's nothing else to do around this dump; the Doctor doesn't let him out, the TARDIS won't let him do anything with tools or wires and the gobby red head frequently tells him that 'she doesn't trust him as far as she can throw him.'

So instead he decides to tidy, he finds a pair of marigolds and an apron with some stupid alien joke scrawled across it and against his better judgement, slips them on. He'd rather look like a prick than subject himself to actually _touching_ any of the Doctor's space junk.

He starts in the console room, underneath the central pillar. He opens a hatch to find boxes upon boxes of junk, he sees each box has a letter scrawled across it in English. So the Doctor had _tried_ to organise it, a long time ago. Or more likely it was one of his weird human pets that had, soon after labelling these boxes, died in the mountains of useless crap they were supposed to hold.

The Master hauls out the first box with a large, black letter 'P' painted on its side. Coughing at the cloud of dust that blossoms suddenly from within it, he pulls out the first object: a phone shaped like a chameleon. Oh for god's _sake_. Next comes a harmonica, then a shoe, a lamp, a plastic hand, a monocle, a bag of humbugs, a kettle, countless wires, an 18th century neck ruff, a giant novelty pencil, a pair of glasses, a binocular, a fedora and lots and lots of books on plumbing.

So it wasn't organised at all then, just random objects shoved into any box. Arbitrary, useless objects like chameleon phones and fedoras, neither of which began with the letter 'P.'

There are many things the Master hates.

He hates the Doctor, he hates humans, he hates the Timelords (even in death), and he hates mess and disorder unless _he_ is the one causing it.

One by one he pulls out the dusty boxes sighing and tutting as he pulls odder and odder objects from their musky depths. He begins to pile the items in alphabetical order, putting accordions with aerosols and bulbs with banana cases. The further he gets the weirder things become. Jelly babies, nail varnish, cat toys, remote controls, hairdryers and all sorts of alien gadgets; some the Master recognises some he doesn't.

At last he adds a plastic zebra to the 'Z' box, replaces it under the floor and with a sigh begins to dust the intricate machinery on the TARDIS' central column with what he hopes is the Doctor's toothbrush.

oooooooooooooooo

The Doctor and Donna skid into the TARDIS just as an arrow sails through the doors and hits the console room sofa with a heavy 'thunk.' Donna slams the door and the two of them stand there breathing heavily. The Doctor risks a glance at his red headed companion, she glares at him and he widens his eyes in his signature "My fault?" expression, there is a beat and before they know it they are sniggering, then giggling and then roaring with adrenalin fuelled mirth.

"Wait!" cries the Doctor suddenly, silencing the laughter. Donna looks at him quizzically. "Everything's different." He murmurs, eyes darting about the room. She raises her eyebrows.

"You're a flippin' nutter, you know that?" she says. "We've just been chased by a load of blue striped savages with bows and arrows and you're worried about your spaceship lookin' different?"

The Doctor is too busy pressing his nose up against the console, seemingly examining it. He stands up quickly and takes a long, deep sniff.

"It's clean." He says incredulously.

Donna rolls her eyes and marches up to her strange companion. She glares at him and then turns, arms folded to look at the small monitor to her left; to her surprise it _was_ clean, free of alien and human fingerprints. Brow furrowed she scrutinizes the buttons and knobs and the spaces in-between. All are clean. She steps back, at a loss.

"I don't like it!" whines the Doctor, pressing a few buttons as if it could bring back decades of familiar space grime.

Donna has a sudden thought and ducks down to the floor, opening part of the grid and pulling out a box with the letter 'S' printed on the side of it. She pokes around in it muttering under her breath as an increasingly distressed Doctor discovers more and more acts of cruel cleanliness.

"The hat stand is too shiny!"

"Where is my collection of rainbow wires?"

"Why has the door been repainted? The rustic look is ruined!"

"Doctor!" she cries, excitedly, "Your boxes have been reorganised!"

"What!"

"Look, all the 'S's are in the 'S' box!" she hauls out another container. "And all the 'C's are in the 'C' box! That's brilliant!"

"Brilliant? _Brilliant!_ I had a system!"

"Yes, you did, you plonker, and you messed it up! Someone's fixed it!"

"No no no no no no no no!" cries the Doctor. "This was Romana's system which I changed for my sanity's sake! I was _organised_!"

"There was a Chameleon Phone in the 'P' box!" bellows Donna.

"'P' FOR PHONE!" roars the Doctor.

"'C' FOR CHAMELEON!" retorts Donna, nose to nose with the frantic alien.

"I have to agree with the human on this one."

They both turn, surprised, to see The Master leaning against the door frame to the control room wearing an apron and an exasperated expression.

"You!" cries the Doctor, pointing a long slender finger at the Master. "You did this!"

"Well it was time someone did something!"

"I had a system!" the Doctor squawks.

"Oh do excuse me, Doctor, I was entirely under the impression you were a hopeless mess."

The Doctor puffed up his chest.

"I am NEVER a hopeless mess."

The Master raised one sceptical eyebrow.

"Your TARDIS certainly was, but I cleaned it. Don't _thank_ me or anything."

The Doctor faltered, he opened his mouth, then closed it again, puffed up his chest, raised a finger and then stormed out of the control room, muttering profusely.

The next day Donna found the Chameleon phone in the 'P' box.


End file.
